Nightlock
by Cookie-Stories
Summary: "Look, we've been through so much already. The Games, the rebellion, the Capitol. And you've lived past all the years. You're strong, Peeta, stronger than this." - Peace doesn't linger like silence when revenge comes back to hurt the ones you love.


_**A/N: so, this is my first HG fanfic after i read the trilogy(: it's post mockingjay. i hope you like it!(: please review! loves, xx. cookies.**_

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His hands have a strong hold on me, my shoulders to be exact. It is only when I step away from the dark, haunting thought that I realize I have been thrashing. Then I stop. It wasn't the insane loss of control of my body that I knew had startled Peeta awake, though a bruise or two is starting to show from under his almost translucent skin. It was such an intense scream that built from within me first which had such power to startle him into a wake, not exactly lull before the storm. He shushes me and props me up with my ear to his chest, his skin warming my cheek through the thin veil of cotton, wiping a fusion of salty sweat and tears from my cheeks. The knowing look he throws me with his eyes, even in the darkness where I can barely form any objects on the bedside table, is penetrating and it radiates our mutual understanding. It's Prim.

We barely have any time to whisper a word about the nightmare before Chicory and Mitch come running in, their rag toys dragging by the floor. Chicory wears courage and sophistication like a set of protective armor as she climbs into our bed and asks me what's wrong. Her enquiry reminds me of Prim, with how she stayed up and talked to me in 13. She sounds a thousand years older for a child who's barely beyond the age where ponies and pink was everything she could ask for in life. Maybe even wiser than me. "It's okay." I say, stroking her dark hair gently as her eyes are pouring with lively, youthful innocence. If that were ever taken away from her- It's the reason I never named her Primrose, after my younger sister.

Prim was stripped bare of that innocence, it clinging onto her dear young life only in the form of little ducktails in her blouses. And to name Chicory as Rose would only remind me of the late President Snow, his breath always reeking with the stench of copper and roses. Foolish it would ever be to have such a pretty name to remind the earlier generations of their past sacrifices in the Games, some losing their son and daughters, some their parents or siblings. All because of Snow. Then when Haymitch left us, that's how Mitch got his honor.

When I start to stare into the distant, remembering many memories both painful and grieving, Peeta escorts the kids back into their room. I can hear the underlying affirmations made by Chicory, promising her father that she'll watch over Mitch for him and sing him a simple song to sleep. "So that you can take care of Momma." says the sweet child. I can already feel Peeta's smile.

"She takes onto Prim's character." He says as he reaches the door. Prim. At the thought of her name, I hear a fragile voice at the back of my head whimpering for aid. Images of the past flash before my eyes, and I'm back at the Capitol. I'm alone, Gale caught and maybe even being tortured to his demise at this very moment, while Peeta keeps the rhythms in my chest faster than it already is. If a hand will rise to my neck and crush my brittle throat to bits. Yet, it isn't death or him that I'm afraid of, but I'm terrified that he'll hurt himself while he's not in control of his own limbs and mind. I remind myself again, that I'm alone. Right behind the gates of the president's mansion. Children huddling among each other as silver parachutes are ripped apart and explosives are set off to blind my vision. It's a few moments later when my ducktailed sister sidesteps the seemingly harmless box and wraps a coat around a child not any much younger than herself. And it's another short one before - I witness with my very own eyes - she is blown to bits. The bloodcurdling scream of a nine-year-old kid in the background clings onto Prim in every dream, making it her own death whistle. Until today, I can never seem to take the two apart. They come as a set, bent to force me into despairing guilt, as if I'm not, already, guilty enough.

The scream echoes in my head, bouncing about the empty walls in my closed skull. I fear that I might tilt towards insanity soon. Maybe I need the head doctor after all, but after twenty years, he's probably dead. Should've accepted his calls when I could. Now I regret it. The wishfulness climbs down my spine, melting me into a weakness as I sit on the bed, alone, cold, and - at this very moment - separated from the world around me.

Soon, Peeta's warmth engulfs me and drags me back to what I would name as cold and harsh reality. But I'm still warm, and together with a slight crack. His presence around me somehow makes me feel complete instead of hollow, how the boy with the bread took up all the emptiness in my heart after Rue, and Finnick, and Prim. But it's not long before he disappears into his own struggle between the real and unreal.

Some other nights I see Peeta fighting his will, restraining himself from turning his delicate, bread-making hands into a weapon of murder. His arms stay rock solid by his sides, fists clenched as he tries not to wake me with his screaming. However, the perpetual wholeness and sanity and strength that he keeps just to be there for me when I break, it goes when he can't take it anymore and it becomes his turn to break. Still, it's ridding. Over the decade, bits and pieces of his nerve wracking nightmare disintegrates to unreclaimable specks of dust, although majority of it can never be gone.

With such brokenness, I truly understand why the victors never have kids. Going into the games and coming out, with only terrorizing memories of the number of days they barely managed to survive, even the bravest tend to soften and start to fear. The Games screw with our heads a quarter as bad as Peeta's trackerjacker horror, and to live on for the next few days, although just a scrape on the surface, is pretty much a living hell. Most of the time, we never heal.

I wrap my arms securely around Peeta, not too tight, and plant a kiss upon the side of his head like how I always did to Prim when she had a nightmare. Usually, it works and he calms down. Other times, my actions become the root cause for the bluish discoloration around my neck and torso. Then, when he regains himself again, his countless apologies can be read off a list for two whole days.

He's smoldering under his pale white skin, and it doesn't take perfect vision to see and conclude that he's blaming it all on himself. I can't help but think that the reason that he's so far broken is me. Obviously, Peeta denies every word or thought about that whenever my bone white honesty takes its place. But, it is. Right?

When Peeta falls back asleep after reciting a thousand over apologies, I climb out of bed and check on Chicory and Mitch. I see my elder daughter huddling up against Mitch, with Mitch letting his little fingers cling on his sister. I remember experiencing that scene before, although it's just a vague memory at the back of my head. It was back in 13, where Prim held a petrified child only a year or two younger than her. Oh, how Chicory takes onto Prim's qualities.

Then, my mind foolishly drifts to the Games, and I think about how Chicory will soon turn of age to be forced into the Games. A relief settles in, allowing me to breathe a silent sigh. The memory is etched in my mind with bliss and serenity, it's been over a decade since we had killed Coin, then Snow, and put the end to the hideously innovative yet ironic sorry excuse for an entertainment purpose. Watching tributes get killed through physical fatalities or by natural causes on a large screen situated in the middle of the bustling city, and feeling the thrill and enjoyment of death, it's disgusting. Disturbing. Inhumane, to say the least. Being in it, and remembering how I was, it makes my blood run cold in an instant. I never want that to ever happen again, and I truly hope it won't. To my children, or to Peeta, even Gale. Never.

I revert my mind back to Chicory, who's surprisingly awake at five in the morning. I smile as she walks up to me, and I can see what she wants reflecting in her eyes. I crouch down to her level and fetch the miniature pair of hunting boots and coat from beside me. "Let me guess. You want to hunt, huh." I say. The flicker of excitement weighs volumes in her eyes, which screams her answer. Of course. "I want to be like you, Momma. Daddy always talks about you, and Uncle Gale, and how you two go out hunting 'game'!" She air-quotes her last word with her tiny fingers, and I chuckle at that. She's always thought that animals had names, and naming them 'game' was selfish. I make sure not to reference our winnings like how I usually do. "He says you're awesome." She continues as I put on her coat.

Her pale blue orbs shine like beautiful gemstones as her honey-coated smile touches her eyes. My fingers rake through her lengthy blonde hair gently, spinning her around to do a simple braid like Cinna had invented. She resembles Prim very much, with the blonde hair and the blue eyes. But I've never told her of Prim's existence. I plan to, though, as I know she's mature enough and has the right to know. Also, she loves to question my past. "This braid," I say. "I had this once. A very brave man I knew a long time ago styled this for me. It suits such a beautiful, brave girl like you."

"Where is he now?" Chicory questions. I fear to reply her with the truth. Dead, I would say, and far away. Yet, I don't. "Happy." I reply. "He's happy, where he's at. That's all I know." She seems to understand the deeper meaning to my words, and she stops probing any further.

I sneak back inside our room, check on Peeta (who seems to be sweating buckets), then I change out of my nightclothes into my usual hunting pick. My father's coat still hangs by the door on a coat rack, along with a few winter coats, some scarves and a couple of beanies that cover the ears. I put it on, bun my hair loosely, and head out with Chicory. We walk past the square in the early daylight, and the dim morning sun reveals the faces of several of our community. Some are walking their pets, others out working. The rest are peacekeepers, whom I've come to know and establish friendly bonds with. Many are Darius' friends who've once been peacekeeping District 12 before. Old-timers, I would call them.

With my eyes, I see how the destruction and re-establishment of District 12 has contributed to our modern day living. From being burnt to ash, 12 has grown into a well-developed village district with no restrictions. New houses and buildings were built from scratch using burnt rubble, and we were funded by the many rich associates from the Capitol. Without President Snow holding all of us back, we have all substituted our differences with friendship. There were no more rebellions, no more wars. All was well. All is well. Also, life blossomed again in the woods. Now it's lively.

Greer, one of the kids from the Capitol twenty years ago, greets me and Chicory with a warm smile. Loving warmth radiates from her, in which I find is such an endearing trait. She harbors no hatred at all even though we brought in the army to invade her city of birth. Actually, she had been one of the few that survived the explosions where Prim had died in. Greer remembers Prim's duck tail. Prim helped her the other time. "You're up bright and early. You guys going to hunt?" She speaks, kneeling down to be level with Chicory. My daughter nods brightly, and both of us can't help but laugh. Greer stands back up and pats me on the shoulder. "Remember to get me some too! We wouldn't mind a little extra food to give to the kids out by the station."

That's the difference. Right now, people help the poor. Hunger isn't a game anymore, nor is it something that half of Panem suffers from. The Capitol isn't that better off than any of the other districts. Chicory tugs on my hand gently, whisking me away and towards the fence that separates us from the woods. Then, the scent of the fresh, woody forest slams right against my nose. The smell of spring. The dandelions. She picks one right off the hollow log that holds our weapons - I'm starting to teach her how to throw knives - and hands it over to me. I tuck it behind her ear, and she looks just as fresh as the lively bed of grass behind her. We head over to the next tree adjacent to the log and feel for our sheaths. Her sheaths had been tailor-made from the Capitol to fit her tiny, slender fingers, while she used the only bow I had kept, which was made by Dad.

I lead her to the tree further away from the edge and her fingers crush a dried leaf. They drift to the north briskly, so that's where we head. Footsteps quiet and steady, we take our position from behind the trunk of a massive, high-rising tree. The canopy shields us from the sunlight, only allowing light to seep through the leaves and plaster our faces in beams. Chicory's eyes stay vigilant as she scans her surroundings, finding any form of elk, deer, or easy prey. The crackle of a twig from our left puts us on high alert, and we turn on the heels of our feet towards the direction of the sound. I spot the whitehead deer almost instantly - through years and years of training - while Chicory's eyes takes a while to see through the camouflage. Soon, her slightly erratic breathing ceases to a calm rhythm. She turns to me, and I stand behind her and overlap her fingers with mine.

Be still. Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth. Hands steady. Eyes on the 10-point target. Legs strong. Another breath in. Hold it. Then, shoot. That's what Dad had taught me in my first few weeks, and we strike the deer right in the eye. We kill another few animals for game, and the few she kills herself. I remember how I first stepped into the woods and trained under Dad.

"Momma, momma! I shot a bird on my own! Look!" Chicory yells gleefully as she traces her steps back towards me, a bird and arrow in hand.

I praise her like I always do, and she puts on one of her modest smiles. I let her carry the game bag back to town when we're done, and we meet up with Greasy Sae. A plenty of years back, she started up her business again, along with the other newcomers. Most game we handed to her for money, and she would make hot soup for the children sleeping outside the station. "Katniss, this soup was left aside specially for you and Peeta. Hope it helps." She smiles a yellowed bucktooth grin as she hands over a flask. "And thank you for the supplies today."

~-pagebreak-~

Peeta doesn't do any better for the next few nights, always breaking out in cold sweat with his taut body controlling his convulsions. My intuition tells me that he might be relapsing, and I wonder what would happen if he does. The only healthy thing is that he's fully conscious and far from delirious when he's awake, so he tries to steer clear from the children whenever he feels odd.

He knows that I don't get much sleep myself these days, watching over him through the night, and he thinks of himself as a burden. A weight on my shoulders. The change in him is starting to get obvious, that he's bruised all over on the inside. But the district 13 medics aren't there anymore, and he has no doctor.

"Did we miss anyone out?" Peeta asks, daylight flooding in streams to embrace the tattered diary on the table. Chicory and Mitch can be seen prancing about the house as we do up our memorial diary. I pick up the book and read the names off the pages. "There's Finnick, Prim, Rue. We've done Madge, and the Mayor." I say, along with several other names of our deceased neighbours and friends from around the districts. "I think that's about it?"

The pen in his hand falls two feet and taps against the linoleum, and he's shivering. Not the kind that needs a blanket, but the kind in uncontrollable rage. Even the look in his eyes is different. Like he's fighting his demons, and clearly isn't winning. "Peeta..." My voice is a low, cautious growl. The kids are still in the house, and to see such a change in their father - if he even remembers he has children - will be such a scare to them. He shuts his eyes and lolls his head against the couch, eyebrows knitted together, fingers clenched in tight fists, and lips taut against baring teeth like a feral creature.

I call for Chicory, and she takes no notice of Peeta's predicament. For that, I do feel kind of glad, whether or not her displayed oblivion is faked or not. "Take your brother outside to play. Let your father rest." She nods, tiptoes over to Peeta, and kisses his forehead like the honey-sweet girl she never fails to be. His fingers visibly relaxes, and so does the tenseness in his face. Then, she brings Mitch outside, closing the door behind her.

"Peeta." He doesn't budge. "Peeta, listen to me." His eyes remain shut, and I can only hope that he's hearing me. "Look, we've been through so much already. The Games, the rebellion, the Capitol. And you've lived past all the years. You're strong, stronger than this. Hang on, and we'll find a doctor to get rid of that. We will."

"I-I know." He whispers. "I just-" The words die on his lips, and his pain is reflected through his dead-sharp, crystal blue eyes.

"You're strong, okay? Remember that time in the capitol square? You didn't take the nightlock pills. You didn't. That's what matters." I can sense the desperation in my voice, and it scares me.

"Katniss." Peeta says. "I want to look at you, I want to look straight into your eyes and know that you're not someone that's going to kill me. But everyday... It's getting harder to fight for that thought that I-I love you. I promise you, with all of me, that I'm doing and will do my best in fighting for my head." Peeta inhales sharply, distraught. "But what if one day I just... Can't? I don't want to do that. Never! Because I know how much it hurt you the last time it happened, and I never want to see you hurt."

My heart shatters from his words. "Rest. We'll think about that if it happens, when it happens. For now, rest." My voice is quivering with guilt and shame. He lays his head back down on the headrest of the couch, and his eyes watch me. Take in every detail and scar in my skin, every split end in my hair, every freckle in my face. Then, he speaks again. "I want to remember how I watched you walk home when we were in school, and how all the birds fell quiet when you sang. How you picked the dandelion and ran home. How-" He chuckled briefly. "How your hand shot straight up that time in music lesson. How you held my hand in the ceremony, and how you kissed me in that cave when I was half-dead and dying. Most of all, how you said yes. And if I ever forget any of that, it would kill me."

I lean forward towards him, closer to him, and rake my fingers through his perfect blonde hair. Then I smile. "I love you too, Peeta." I peck him gently on the lips and forehead before standing erectly up again. "Now, rest. I'm going to check on the kids."

He obediently falls asleep right after, and I step out to the front yard where Chicory and Mitch are standing at the end of the pebbled walkway. Then, something in Mitch's hand catches my eye. Gleaming in the sunlight, it's violet colour outstanding to it's background. But dread fills in me, as well as an unexplainable sense of lost control. Because I know what it is.

It's nightlock.

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**_How do you like the first chapter?(: hope it was good for you! and i hope i'm not asking for too much, if i ask you to review before i continue!(: Criticism is golden!_**


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